Below the sea churns, turquoise mixed with silken ashes that drift into piles of snowy crests, riding turbulent swells.
On the shore shallow footprints sink into wet sand before the waves wash them back into oblivion, silhouetted against the setting sun, weak winter light that throws shadows off of the dying crests of waves that smash themselves like asteroids burning on impact.
The tide is awash with the foam of broken waves, of murkiness and despair and here comes the roar, the rush of wind blowing your flaxen hair into my face and I smell wet straw after a rainstorm.
For a moment it is September and I am breathless, standing on Cap de Fer and Aquitaine stretches before me, a bounty of vineyards and craggy peaks and the Chinook of the Pyrenees blows against my body, cold and hard from the climb.
I open my eyes and bury myself into your neck and inhale, capture the essence of a love that slips away and tumbles into the oscillating breeze, snatching seductively as it drips like rosewater down your tongue.
I run my lips against your neck, brushing them against the lightness of browned skin, blue summer days and they tremble just below the curve of your chin.
By the barren, eviscerated sunset one day late in January, brand my forehead with the knowledge of a love that was a flash of green light as the sun sank below the churning sea and I stood above it, the memory of your hair and the touch of a single kiss lifted away by the rough breeze.
My hand in yours, I will see you behind closed eyelids as I fall asleep, young, beautiful, flushed cheeks that are almost burgundy from the cold:
Crimson lips which I tasted and your catalyst eyes that took me back to green water, to light sea foam, bracing and invigorating, to the tumbling barrels of waves, to the perfect ride as I skimmed along the surface, a miracle of flight gliding across seawater, looking to the white sand so far away and lost in your eyes and I was weightless in this moment.
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